


Eridan: Be a worse wreck than your shiphive.

by arcaneScribbler



Series: Player Count 8 + 2 [14]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Delirium, Eridan is a mess, Erisolsprite still happened, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, I hope I'm tagging this properly, M/M, Other, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Sburb, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, please tell me if I need to add any, post-victory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaneScribbler/pseuds/arcaneScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a resurrected fish-hipster is in a continuous state of absolute meltdown and self-blame and the author has no clue how to summarize or title this at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eridan: Be a worse wreck than your shiphive.

======>

Your name is ERIDAN AMPORA and YOU ARE A MONSTER.

(Prince of Hope, ha! You'd have been more suited to Doom than the pissblood, with all the ways you so _royally_ ruined everything. Culled all your Angels, blinded Sol (before Spritehell he'd deserved it, you'd been so _sure_ he'd deserved it, but your delusions were ripped apart all too easily from sharing a thinkpan with the landdweller and all the damned voices he hears (voices you _still_  hear screaming, from time to time (or maybe that's just you))), betrayed Kan in the worst possible way for a reason you can't even _remember_ anymore (and deserved every bit of her wrath), murdered _Fef_...)

You broke all your totally useless, _fake as shit_ wands. Multiple times. Just in case. (Couldn't take the risk of one of them being _that_  one, the one Kan debunked.) Returned Ahab's Crosshairs to its rightful owner, and haven't left your shiphive for anything but hunting since. Not lusi, a course. Not anymore. There's no need for you to be Orphaner when the real deal is alive. Besides, it's not like she needs you. There's no hungry Gl'bgolyb to feed, no temptation to slack off a bit so you can watch landdwellers die. Just your own sawed-open bilesack to fill. Only for hunting, and only during the day, where no one will see you and the sun burns your skin bloody just like your gunfire and fake 'wwhite science' burned through every target you got in your sights. Haven't been on Trollian either. It's better this way.

You're not sure where your glasses are. You're not sure you care. Just waving a weapon around and firing off a warning shot or two has been enough to make the rare curious troll stupid enough to venture out this way abscond. You don't want anyone near you.

Seahorsedad is back, or maybe he isn't. You're not sure. Everyone's dead, after all. Even you. Especially you. (He seems so _real,_  though...) Sometimes Fef is calling up at you from the sea and you tell her to shove off, and sometimes, when you're too weak to move, it's her ghost, giving you this sad sad look as she makes you hold on, never letting you just _die_  already. (You agree. You don't deserve to be free of pain.) Once it was Sol. (You can still feel the gun barrel against your head, still see the cockiness you used to _despise_ slip off like a mask and turn into an expression that you still don't understand.)

(You swear you can hear the crackling of psionics, the thrum of that wand, the chainsaw buzzing. Gunfire. Screaming. The hornpile. Something splashing that definitely isn't water. The sounds are always there, waiting.)

You don't use sopor much. You don't reelly- you don't really sleep. Most evenings you barely manage to drag yourself back on deck with what little you've caught, if anything, everything blurred in a different way than the fear, conceit, and fury that left you so blind you snapped like a hair-trigger and ruined EVERYTHING, drag it over to a beat-up old Cookalizer and force down food you don't even taste. You've spent more nights out on deck than in your respiteblock. It's a wonder you haven't been culled yet.

(You don't notice (or care about) how much of a mess you look. How you scratch and scratch at an imagined itch enough to leave your sides bloody, or staunch the flow of blood from hallucinated wounds to the point that all that exists between the scabs and new scars is a patchwork of handprint bruises and inflamed skin. How you scream and sob yourself raw one minute and go blank and dull the next. How you move like an empty shell instead of a troll. How you keep wearing your body, mind, and spirit down with listless hunting, near-starvation, and lack of sleep. How you spend well over half your waking moments in a feverish daze, or how a very real and very much not-dead Feferi Peixes's persistent Witchery and stubborn determination to get through to you is one of the only reasons you're still alive.)

(You're far too tangled up in the strangling barbed-wire fishing nets of blazing, self-destructive Hope shredding you apart from the inside to notice any of that.)


End file.
